Bumpa

When the Ambassador Bridge opened across the border between Windsor and Detroit on April 16, 1930, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world, its centre span measuring 1,850 feet. While we were driving past it, Mom started recounting her father's early career.

Thomas Albert Tobin was born in 1910. His ancestors had lived in the area for generations. According to genealogy he traced, the Tobins were Irish sea captains who settled in the 18th Century at Fort Malden, now Amherstburg, a suburb south of Windsor on the Detroit River. A Tobin was the first Caucasian baby born at Fort Malden.

Mom told me this: when he finished technical school in 1928, he got his first job driving a gravel truck for the construction of the bridge. During the Depression he drove for a butcher shop.

"In those days when you got a job, you didn't give it up for anything," Mom said.

Finally he worked for Chrysler, moving new trucks off the line. He also played semi-professional hockey and passed up an opportunity to be drafted into the NHL, which would have required the family to move to Winnipeg. Others from his team went on to play in the NHL.

Mom was the eldest of six children. The following photo shows my grandfather holding Aunt Carol in 1937.



He eventually got promoted to management at Chrysler, a job he held until he retired. He had the right disposition for work in a busy factory: he was tough and contrary. Mom used to recall how he would stay out drinking late at night. Nana would sit up fretting, and made Mom wait with her. I suppose my grandmother knew she was safe from harm in front of the children.

He got his name from my brother, Bob, the eldest grandchild. In the 1950s my grandparents had a big black Chrysler, which they called Bumpa. Nana used to wait at the front door to see him come home from work. One day when Bob was visiting, she held him up at the window to see the black car pull into the driveway.

"Here comes that big, bad Bumpa," Nana said.

Bob took her to mean his grampa, the name stuck, and we all grew up calling him Bumpa.

In hindsight I doubt that he cared much for sensitive, artistic boys like me. I was the 10th of 19 grandchildren, and he had plenty of tougher boys who he could favour. He was sentimental and family-oriented though, shedding tears at a heartbeat. He loved Christmas. On Boxing Day (December 26), all the families would gather at Nana and Bumpa's house. While the uncles drank and watched sports on TV, the children would all cram into a space under the basement stairs and our older cousins Brenda and Cathy would tell us horror stories they had learned at camp. Later Bumpa would don a Santa cap and pass out presents, one to each person (the aunts drew names for this).

Bumpa used to have us sit on his knee and he would play this little trick with two bits of paper stuck on his fingers:

Two little birdies sitting on a hill,
one named Jack and one named Jill.
Fly away Jack, fly away Jill.
Come back Jack, come back Jill.

Somehow he would make the papers disappear and reappear. I was not good at sleight-of-hand, so I never figured it out.

In later years he quit smoking and drinking, but his temperament became more argumentive. We saw my mother's parents frequently while I was growing up. They used to house-sit for us when we went on vacations to the cottage. Bumpa had his own way of doing things, and would always upset my mother by pulling the clematis off the pillars of the deck, leaving delicate houseplants outside in stormy weather, or spraying insecticide to kill spiders around the house (Mom avoided chemicals, particularly anything that could harm the many birds nesting on our property).

Mom loved her father, but she was always furious at him about something. My parents didn't drink much and never smoked, and I was repulsed by the rampant drinking, smoking and male chauvanism which presided over Mom's family gatherings. I never felt a bond with her parents.

Bumpa died of cancer in 1989. Nana still lives in her own townhouse at age 92, but I have only seen her once in the past eight years.

Essex and Erie

This photo is not typical of the area where I grew up (there are usually more trees than one would see on the Prairies or Great Plains), but it accentuates how flat the land is in Canada's two most southerly counties, Essex and Kent. This was taken alongside Highway 3, near Merlin, Ontario where it follows the Lake Erie shoreline.

The next photo was taken on the opposite side of the road, showing the height of the sand bluffs. In the 1970s my parents (like most of our neighbours) had tonnes of limestone rock dumped to prevent high water from eroding our property this way. Now our bluff is densely overgrown with trees and shrubs. Water levels have fallen and willows are beginning to take root on low dunes.



Both the previous photos were taken on my drive home yesterday.

The next two were taken on Thursday near my parents' house when a thunderstorm moved through around dinnertime.



( 800 x 400 )

Two more images of the thunderstorm are posted in weather_pics: prelude, and storm front.

Finally, here's one more bonus image of the Detroit skyline taken from Dieppe Gardens in Windsor earlier the same afternoon.

( 800 x 434 )

Lake Fletcher days

This evening, back in Guelph:





This is what my family calls a "Lake Fletcher day": mostly sunny, low humidity, puffy clouds drifting across the afternoon sky like dreamy gods. It's too chilly for some tastes, with highs in the lower 20s (in the 70s F). We use that expression because Lake Fletcher gets weather like that for a good part of the summer. Such days are rare in Southern Ontario, but when we get them they make us wistful.

I spent a few quiet minutes by the pond enjoying the fresh evening air and golden light. I bid the Eramosa River farewell. I'll have few encounters with it between now and September. Then the woods will be drowsy, the grasses pale and drunk with insect songs.

I'll reach the cottage on Monday night. I'm looking forward to spending lots of time there this summer. Also, today I booked a three-night canoe trip in Algonquin Park for me and Marian, July 6 to 9.

This evening when I look up at the brilliant sky, or let my eyes dive deep in its river reflection, I can almost hear Lake Fletcher calling me away.